


Remember to be Happy

by nameless_bliss



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Anniversary, Carlos and Janice are Science Bros, Carlos is a Dork, Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil Is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil is a Dork, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, First Anniversary, Fluff, Happy happy phone sex, It's just fluff and smut, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Mostly Fluff, Phone Sex, Post-Episode: e049 Old Oak Doors Part B, Slight Hurt/Comfort, So much fluff I swear to god, spoilers for old oak doors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:45:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2134188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameless_bliss/pseuds/nameless_bliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Know that I’m celebrating here, where I am, and remember to celebrate there, where you are. It’s a happy day. Please remember to be happy."</p><p>Cecil and Carlos celebrate their First Anniversary. It may not be what they originally planned, but no anniversary is perfect. It becomes perfect when you learn to accept it for what it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember to be Happy

A beam of violet light pulses from the floor lamp.

The beam escapes the iridescent bulb, slowly morphing into a free-form rhombus, which emits a loud hissing.

“The doorbell?” Cecil hesitates before grabbing the television remote, pausing the recorded episode of ‘Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego Hiding the Other Worlds?’ as he gets to his feet. There’s another hiss, this one sounding impatient.

Cecil stops himself, forcing a deep breath through his nose. The doorbell always does this to him. The doorbell always makes him think, makes him hope. _‘It’s probably not him,’_ he tells himself, internally chanting it over and over again until he’s convinced. Until he’s reasonably convinced. He stands in front of the door, silent, waiting until the flicker of excitement deep in his stomach is thoroughly extinguished by well-practiced cynicism.

He turns the handle.

_‘It’s probably not him.’_

He opens the door.

_‘It’s probably not him.’_

It’s not him.

The disappointment - however expected - is still temporarily overwhelming. He steadies himself against the open door.

“Hello, Mr. Palmer!”

She’s familiar, she’s terribly familiar, but her name doesn’t immediately make itself known in his memory. She wears all black, professional, but looks far too young to be too much of a professional herself. She holds a small box, wrapped in some sort of heat-trapping material, nestled in the crook of her left - and only - arm. Her white smile is dazzling against her cinnamon skin.

“Shayna,” Cecil eventually says with casual certainty. He remembers her application to the station’s internship program last spring. She had been an ideal candidate, but there were no available positions. By the time something opened up, she had graduated. Cecil looks at her charming, happy face and distantly muses that it probably worked out for the best. “Um… can I help you?” Her presence, though welcome, is still inexplicable.

Her smile impossibly becomes brighter. “I have a delivery for you!” She expertly maneuvers the box from the crook of her arm to her palm, holding it out for him. “Fresh from Gino’s kitchen.”

“Gino’s?” Cecil repeats, taking the box in uncertain hands. “I didn’t think Gino’s delivered.”

“We don’t,” Shayna responds with a shrug, “but we got this order a few weeks ago and figured it was worth making an exception.”

“But I didn’t order anything,” Cecil offers lamely, reaching for his wallet even though he knows he only has two dollars in cash.

Shayna’s smile becomes oddly secretive. “I know. Don’t worry, already been paid for. Including a generous tip,” she adds with a wink. “Sorry to run, but I’m still on the clock and the dinner rush will be starting any minute.” She waves briefly before disappearing from the view of the doorframe. As she retreats, she cheerfully calls out: “Happy Anniversary!”

Everything is suddenly very heavy. The box in his hands, his stomach, his clothing, even the hairs on his head seem to be pushing him toward the ground.

_‘Happy Anniversary.’_

The two words he has been avoiding all day.

The two words he has been trying to distract himself from all day.

The two words printed on the lid of the box he’s just been given.

His legs barely manage to carry him to the kitchen, where he barely manages to set the box on the table before collapsing into the nearest chair.

The box is open. He doesn’t remember opening it.

It contains a standard styrofoam take-out container, and a small card. Cecil keeps his hands from trembling long enough to focus on the words on the simple stationery.

‘Querido,’ begins the note scrawled in neat, but unfamiliar handwriting, ‘I doubt I have to express how much I wish I could be there with you today. But please, Cecil, remember that today exists for me as well. We’re both existing today, knowing what today means, and able to celebrate - even if it’s not in a way we previously imagined. Know that I’m celebrating here, where I am, and remember to celebrate there, where you are. This year has been unbelievable for so many reasons, but mostly because of how happy I’ve been with you. It’s a happy day. Please remember to be happy. With all my love (and there’s a _very_ statistically significant amount of it), Carlos. - _P.S._ Enjoy!’

Cecil blinks. He blinks again. He blinks several times, repeating the action until the threat of tears is successfully held at bay. He looks from the note, to the take-out box, and back to the note. He opens the styrofoam container, though he already knows what’s inside.

A single portabella mushroom, served rare and bloody, as is the Gino’s tradition.

“What’s that, Uncle Cecil?”

He inhales sharply, coughing once to make sure his throat will support speech before he replies. “I got a present,” he says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster, finally turning away from the table.

Janice sits on the threshold between the kitchen and the living room, where muffled noises indicate that she unpaused the television at some point. She looks curious, as always, but shows no signs of worry, which lets Cecil know he hasn’t visibly fallen apart yet. She looks quizzically at the small display on the table. “For your anniversary?”

As his throat tightens, Cecil nods silently.

The wheelchair scoots closer as Janice’s face lights up like a lightning storm. “From Uncle Carlos?”

The excitement in her voice cuts right through Cecil’s defenses. He smiles, even as he quickly snakes a finger behind his glasses to wipe his eyes. “Yes, wasn’t that thoughtful of him?”

“How did he get it here?” She’s openly surveying the contents of the gift now, though she takes no interest in the words on the card. The turning gears of her inquisitive mind are practically visible as she susses out the mystery.

It takes a moment for Cecil to think it through. “He must have called Gino’s a while ago and asked them to deliver it today. He even told them what to write on the card,” he says as though it isn’t another new realization, explaining why the note is in a stranger’s handwriting. “It’s a very clever gift, really. He must have had to plan very far ahead, since time is so different there.”

Janice’s smile falls, though just barely. “So, he’s not back yet?”

He’s not. He’s not back yet. Minutes ago, that would have reduced Cecil to a puddle on the floor. But now, he gives a soft smile. “No, sweetie, not yet.”

Her eyebrows furrow, causing creases on her forehead that are comically deep for a child. “He was helping me grow singing bathroom tiles in petri dishes at home…”

Cecil claps a hand to his forehead. “Oh that’s right! He left some instructions for you the last time he called, I almost forgot.” He wracks his brain to remember where he left the list, carefully written in nail polish with a sharpened (non-Angelic) feather as a quill. “The most important thing was to make sure they don’t get too much sunlight; that’s the easiest way for them to become tone deaf.”

Janice’s smile returns full-force, fueled by a wave of excitement. “Uncle Cecil, do you think you could come over sometime and help me with them?”

He considers, but only for a moment. “Well, he did give me pretty detailed instructions… and I am _basically_ a Scientist too…” he draws out the suspense by over-dramatically stroking his chin in thought.

“Please! None of them can even hold their own harmonies yet! Pleasepleaseplease _pleeeaaaase_!” Janice scoots toward Cecil until one of her wheels is nudging his bare foot.

Cecil nudges right back, breaking into a wide smile. “Of course I will. ‘A Scientist is always willing to offer help, that’s the sixth thing a Scientist is.’ Now let’s go see if I can find that list.” He gets to his feet, picking up the Gino’s container and bringing it to the freezer.

“Aren’t you going to eat that first?”

“What, right now? This _whole_ thing?” Cecil feigns shock as he carefully situates it next to the icemaker. “I can’t eat it all by myself! I’ll just have to wait until there’s someone here to share it with me.”

Janice understands immediately, that much is plain on her face when Cecil closes the freezer door and turns to face her. “Uncle Cecil, I bet he wanted you to eat it right now.”

Cecil scoffs, walking purposefully to seize the handles on the back of Janice’s wheelchair. “Well that’s just too bad for him, isn’t it? He’ll have to wait and suffer through eating it with me when he gets home. Now come on, I think I saw Khoshekh playing with that instruction list in the bedroom the last time he was here.”

__________________________

 

After the PTA meeting, Steve stands in the entryway, like always.

Janice is happy to return home, but reluctant to leave Cecil, like always.

Cecil is even more reluctant to see her leave, though he’s promised that they’ll hang out again soon, like always.

“You have the list?” He asks.

She holds up the carefully folded notebook paper. “Tell Uncle Carlos thanks for me. And remember, you promised you’d come over to help me out sometime!”

“I _will_ , don’t worry,” Cecil reassures with a smile. “Do you still have that labcoat we got you for your birthday?”

Steve chuckles. “We can barely get her to take it off to wash it.”

Cecil fights the urge to snap that his question was for _Janice_ , not _him_. He braces himself for the next part of the standard good-bye conversation.

“You know, Cecil,” Steve begins, like always, “if you don’t have any other plans, you’re welcome to join us for dinner. Then you could help Janice with whatever science-y thing she’s doing, too.”

Cecil opens his mouth to ‘respectfully’ decline, like always.

He glances back at his empty house.

At their empty house.

At their empty home.

_‘Please remember to be happy.’_

No one is more surprised than Cecil himself when he replies: “Steve, that would be neat.”

___________________________

 

It’s 4:27 a.m. when his cell phone rings.

“YesI’mhereawake,” Cecil blurts as one groggy word, starting before he can even answer the call.

“Damn, what time is it?” Carlos asks with a quiet laugh, clearly surprised by the greeting.

“Early,” Cecil replies, knowing the glare of the digital clock will hurt his eyes if he tries to read it.

“Sorry, Ceec, time must have shifted around again. I _really_ thought I had the time difference figured out. I have all the calculations in front of me-” he cuts himself off with a groan, “Oh fuck, that means it’s probably not… um… what day is it for you?”

As Cecil’s body slowly adjusts to the new sensations of being awake, he manages to translate the real meaning of Carlos’s hesitancy. “Happy Day- _After_ -Our-Anniversary, Carlos.”

“ _Fuck_. I mean, fuck - no - that’s not what I mean. I mean, Happy Anniversary, I just mean-” he stumbles before giving in and sighing loudly. “I had it all worked out so I’d call you on the actual day. I’m sorry I missed it.”

Cecil smiles, slowly stretching out across the bed, kicking off the covers as his legs spread toward the corners. He savors the sounds of cracking joints. “Darling, it’s _fine_. You only missed it by a few hours anyway. And… the day doesn’t matter.” He reaches for an extra pillow, propping his head up higher so he can’t accidentally doze off again. “When was it for you?”

“Three days ago,” Carlos only sounds mildly disappointed now. “It’s almost afternoon here.”

“Oh... so are you busy with all your science? You can call back later if you need to.” Cecil tries not to sound disappointed.

“No, I made sure I have plenty of time to talk right now. After all, this was _supposed_ to be our anniversary. I have as much time to give as you want to take.”

Cecil hums in acknowledgement, smiling, letting a few moments of silence pass before speaking again. “You got me a present.”

“I did.” The shy smile is so clear in Carlos’s voice that Cecil can see it down to the last detail, the last crinkle around his eyes, the last glint of sunlight gleaming against his perfectly displayed teeth. “It got to you alright? Everything worked out?”

“It did, and it was absolutely lovely, lovely Carlos. But… but it’s also not fair. You got me a present and I now I have it, but I got you a present too and I don’t have any way of getting it to you!” He flips over on the bed, sprawling out on his stomach and bunching up a pillow to rest under his chin.

“It’s alright, Ceec, I don’t need to have it right now. Like you said, the day doesn’t matter. I’ll get it whenever I get home, and I’ll still love it no matter when that is.” The smile creeps back into his voice. “I’m happy enough just knowing you got me something at all.”

Cecil grins, rubbing his eyes with his free hand in hopes of staving off an impending yawn. “I can’t wait for you to see it.”

Carlos takes a few deep, uncertain breaths. Cecil almost gets nervous with anticipation. Finally, “Cecil… it’s a trophy, isn’t it?”

Several moments pass in silence.

 _“Carlooooos!”_ He buries his face in the pillow beneath him, too tired to care about how openly he’s whining. “It was supposed to be a surprise!” He manages to moan into the soft pillowcase, not noticing how badly his words are muffled by the obstacle of cotton and feathers.

“I’m sorry, querido, really. It was an accident,” Carlos explains quickly, sounding twisted with guilt. “Remember the last time my glasses sprouted legs? Well, before I caught them, they ran into the crawlspace and led me right to where you hid it. It wasn’t wrapped yet.”

“It’s still not wrapped,” Cecil mumbles, miserable, “I was going to hide it in a tree in Mission Grove Park and ask if you wanted to do more experiments so you’d find it.”

Silence. “Oh, Ceec… that’s- that’s _really_ cute,” Carlos practically sighs into the phone. “Can… can you still do that? When I get back? I’ll pretend I didn’t know.”

Cecil curls up on his side, holding a pillow to his chest, smile slowly spreading across his lips. “I guess so,” he tries to sound reluctant, and misses by a mile, “but your fake surprise had better be very convincing.”

Carlos chuckles. “I’ll start practicing my reaction right away.” Another silence. “So, how was your half of our Anniversary?”

He thinks it over for a moment before answering honestly. “Actually, it was great. It really was.” He pauses, stroking his hand down the length of the pillow he’s holding against his heart, as though he could feel a different heart - a familiar and perfectly complementary heart - beating within it. “I…” something tickles his vocal chords, stalling the sound. Shyness, he realizes with a creeping blush. “I remembered to be happy.” The blush spreads across his face, so he barrels on without leaving time for response. “I got to see Janice. We spent some time with her tile experiments. Oh! We followed your advice about the potato flour, it was amazing! The basses sang a chromatic scale in actual unison, dynamics and everything. I think she’ll be able to install them in her bathroom soon.”

“Look at you! Doing actual _science_ all by yourself,” Carlos teases with a bright laugh. “Maybe I’ll start a radio show out here in this desert. You know, to make it even.” He drops his voice low enough to match Cecil’s ‘radio presenter’ pitch: “Welcome… to This Desert Otherworld Place.”

The sound of Carlos’s temporarily deep voice breaking into customarily squeaky giggles practically forces a matching laugh to rumble through Cecil’s chest. He can’t fight it - not that he would want to. Their shared laughter fills the room for a few brief moments, making Cecil forget the barrier of the cell phone and the void between them. The pillow in his arms is transformed into a warm body, shaking with each new sound.

As the laughter fades into soft chuckles, Cecil’s limbs go loose. The pillow is cold again, lifeless again, reality again. The sounds dissipate on both ends of the call, leaving a relaxed nothing between them.

The silence is comfortable for one, but weighty for the other.

“Carlos,” Cecil hesitates, finally gathering his courage, “I’ve been thinking-”

“Yes?” Carlos prompts immediately.

“Yes, that’s what Radio-Host-Slash-Scientists _do_ ,” Cecil quips, wishing there was a body in bed with him that he could poke for emphasis. He waits for Carlos’s bubbling giggles to quiet before continuing. “I’ve been thinking… and I’ve been thinking about it a lot, for a while now. I’ve been thinking about… about when you come home.”

Carlos’s silence isn’t troubling, but it’s not a comfort either.

“Oh?” He finally offers, in cautious tones that make it painfully clear that he has no desire to let this phone call twist down the same windingly depressing path as so many before it.

“Yes,” Cecil swallows. His throat is suddenly dry as the desert sand beneath his boyfriend’s feet. That awareness, that brief flicker of symmetry, is enough to make him smile. It gives him the courage to let his voice carry his thoughts away, carry them to someone else. He speaks freely. “I’ve thought about it so much. Well, ‘thought’ isn’t the right word. I’ve… _imagined_. I’ve imagined what will happen when you come home to me, Carlos. I’ve imagined it a hundred different ways, maybe a thousand. I never knew how you’d get to me, but once you did, I knew exactly what would happen. It would always be different, but so much of it was the same. There was always a deep, powerful… desperation. We would be desperate for each other. You’d open the door like starting a sentence, and I’d finish it for you by slamming it closed again, pressing you up against it as punctuation. We would clutch, we would tear, we would ravish like we had been underwater and had finally broken the surface. Our clothes would be gone in moments, and there would be - so much. Shuddering, thrusting, pressing, gasping, holding on to each other as the only things left in the world. I’ve imagined it so many ways. I’ve pictured it so clearly. I’ve wished and willed it to be true so many times, when I needed pleasure and was forced to give it to myself, without you. Empty. So many times. But today, I finally realized. I’ve been forgetting something. The most important thing of all. Do you know what that is, Carlos? You said it yourself.”

There’s silence in the phone’s speaker. Thick silence. Cecil closes his eyes and reaches up, feeling the silence wrap around his fingers like silk. He tastes the silence on his tongue and smiles.

“I… uh- what is that?” Carlos sputters, drowning in his own unsteady breathing.

Cecil parts his lips, testing their movements in anticipation for the sweetness of the word he’s about to let slip between them: “Happiness. Carlos, when I see you again, when you come home again, whenever that may be, I will be so _happy_. When I can finally feel the vibrations of your voice against my body instead of just hearing them, I’m afraid my heart will overpower the void itself, and I’ll float out into nothingness. I can’t believe I had let myself forget that. Happy. I never imagined it that way. But now, it’s the only way I can imagine it. I won’t tear your clothes away from your body, like they’re an obstacle to be conquered. I’ll peel them away slowly, because they’re an extra skin, one you’ve needed for a long time, but one you don’t need when you’re with me. I’ll strip them away as gently as I can, but it won’t be very gentle at all because I’ll be laughing against every patch of skin that’s revealed to me. I’ll laugh with you until there’s nothing between us anymore. No clothing. No void. No time. Just us. Laughing. Happy. Happy to become each other’s extra skin again.”

“Cecil,” Carlos interrupts, voice straining against something.

The discomfort in his tone snaps Cecil out of his own mind. “Oh- oh, I’m sorry, should I not be doing this now? I wasn’t thinking.”

He realizes how true this is when he’s suddenly aware of his hand - the one that isn’t holding his cell phone against his ear - running teasing lines along the waistband of his briefs. The briefs that have somehow become uncomfortably tight.

Though this is a familiar situation for them, it has never been Cecil who put them there. It is easy for Cecil to sneak away at a moment’s notice - to his bedroom, or a deserted parking lot, or even a securely locked radio studio. It is much harder for Carlos to sneak away from an entire army in a featureless desert. So it was always Carlos who dictated when they shared things like this - or rather, it was Carlos who suggested them in shy, hopeful whispers.

“No, no this is… this is good, but I just… hang on-” There’s a few moments of rustling, interrupted by dry, scraping noises.

“Carlos?”

“I’m still here. I was just… getting situated. Finding some privacy.”

A zipper is undone on the other end of the line, and fabric is shifted. Cecil grins at the sound. “Are you comfortable now? Where are you?”

“It’s best you don’t ask. It’s not exactly dignified.”

Cecil chuckles. His voice drops into the sticky, honeyed timbre of ridiculously overt seduction. “What are you wearing?”

“The same dusty jeans and labcoat I’ve been wearing since May, and you know it! Shut up!” Carlos snaps through his own laughter and the loud guffaws in his ear. “Please, get back to the story.”

“Is it a story?” Cecil’s surprise is genuine.

“Yes, and I want to hear what happens next. In the story with all the happiness. I like this story.” Carlos’s warmth is genuine.

“Unfortunately, that’s where my story ends. Because I can’t figure out what happens next.” Cecil continues to play with the elastic, the only barrier between his fingers and his quickly-growing erection. “You come home, we’re happy together, we’re home together, we’re laughing together, we’re naked together… and then I don’t know anymore. I can’t decide. It’s all so wonderful.”

“But that part should be easy,” Carlos insists, savoring his still-steady voice while he can. “All you have to do is tell me what you want.”

No question has ever been so simple, or so impossible.

“What I want? That’s not the right story, dear Carlos,” Cecil’s voice betrays his honest puzzlement. “This isn’t a story about what I want. Because you’ve just come home after all this time, and all I want is to give you exactly what _you_ want.” These things are obvious, and they are simple, and he says them as such. He isn’t trying to entice, he’s stating facts.

As Carlos considers the new question, Cecil pictures his ‘consideration’ face, with his thick eyebrows knitted in thought, and the corners of his mouth twisted down toward his chin, and his wide nostrils flared. He smiles at the image, and at his certainty that the image is a reality on the other end of the line.

Carlos is cautious, but not out of lack of interest. “What are you offering?”

Cecil laughs, and the Cecil in his story laughs with him. “What all is there? You can have any of it. My hand, my mouth, my ass, my cock, my voice, all of me, none of me, every possible combination of my being. I’m offering everything I have, Carlos.”

A sound flashes through the call, the tiniest hint of something high and cracked - a whimper. It sends a shiver down Cecil’s spine. The jolt in his hand forces his fingers just underneath the waistband of his briefs. He doesn’t push further forward, but he doesn’t pull back. He lets his eyelids flutter closed, blocking out what features of their bedroom he can see in the faint darkness of pre-dawn.

“I…” Carlos finally tests his voice. It breaks almost instantly. He doesn’t care. “When you… when you put it like that… Cecil, it is impossible to choose. I want - I want all of it, all at once, it’s all so good. Anything you do is so good…”

Long fingers slip all the way into briefs, and Cecil smirks at the flicker of anticipatory heat that flares through his system. “Then you’ll-”

“Wait!” His sentence is interrupted. His hand freezes to mirror his frozen words. Carlos continues, the huskiness of his voice replaced with disarming straightforwardness. “A shower. Can I have a shower?”

Cecil hesitates, raising one eyebrow even though only the Faceless Old Woman can see it (and she doesn’t care). “Carlos… I offer you absolutely everything my body can give and instead you want… a shower?” He doesn’t want to judge his boyfriend’s fantasy, but he can’t deny that he was expecting something quite different.

“Cecil, it’s so _dusty_ here. There’s dust, and sand, and dirt, and rocks, and pebbles, and it’s fucking _everywhere_ and there’s so much dust everything is dusty all the fucking time no matter how hard you try to keep the dust away it’s still dusty and I hate the dust, Cecil, _I hate it_.” He chokes out the rant with an uncharacteristic level of petulance. “I’m so sick of being dusty. When I come home, I want to get rid of all the dust - _all of it_ \- and not ever let myself get dusty again. Can I please take a shower? I’d really like a long, hot shower.”

Cecil contemplates, slowly tracing his fingers along his hip bone. “Yes. Of course you can have a shower. But only if I get to go with you. If there’s really that much dust, your hair is probably _filthy_. There’s no way I’m letting anyone else wash it, not even you.”

“Can I shave too? After the shower?”

“Ha, ‘ _shave_ ’. You’re silly, Carlos.” Cecil runs the pads of his fingers across his skin and shivers.

“Fine, I’ll keep the beard,” Carlos concedes with obvious reluctance. “But only for a little while! Cecil, the damn thing is scratching my face.”

Cecil drags one finger along the length of his cock, which is practically aching for attention. He bites his lip to keep back a moan. “Well when you come home you can have it scratch my face instead.”

Het gets an admonishing sigh in response. “Cecil, that’s not what I- nope. Nevermind. Fine. I’ll have it scratch your face instead.” His voice drops, both in pitch and volume. “It could scratch other places too, you know.”

Fingers are still trailing lightly along Cecil’s cock, enough to tease, but not give any real friction. He struggles to keep his voice steady. “Mm, so that’s what you’d want to do, is it?”

“Oh, querido, there’s _so much_ I’ll want to do to you when I come home,” Carlos manages a short chuckle, lacking the breath support to truly carry the sound out of his throat. “But for now, for this - ah - ah, this story… can we just… not make any decisions? We’ll decide what we want to do when I’m there-” his voice cracks with a whine, “but right now let’s just… let’s just… ah…”

Cecil’s cock twitches against his idle fingers. A sly grin spreads across his face. “Why, _Carlos_ ,” he purrs, “you sound tired. Should I let you go? You can call back later, if you’d like-”

“Cecil don’t you _dare_ hang up that phone,” Carlos tries to sound commanding. His desperation lessens the effect. He obviously realizes this, because he lets the desperation take over and abandons the command entirely when he begs, “Please, please keep talking. Finish the story.”

Hearing his boyfriend start to fall apart over the phone makes it harder for Cecil to control his hand. Before he realizes it, his fingers have wrapped around his cock, sliding down the length in a grip tight enough to make his back arch off of the mattress. He hadn’t even realized he had rolled onto his back. Hadn’t he just been curled up on his side? Hugging the pillow that has suddenly been pushed off the edge of the bedframe, landing on the area rug with a dull, soft thud? How did he end up sprawled out across the bed, back arching in a smooth line, kicking his underwear off as the fabric tangles around his feet?

“Cecil, _please_.”

Carlos is so far out of reality that it snaps Cecil back into it. He knows how this works. “Of course, my dear Carlos,” he murmurs as he begins to get himself settled. With a surprising amount of effort, he pulls his hand away from himself and throws it across the vast expanse of bed, the bed that is spacious when holding two bodies and is practically massive when only holding one. His fingers strain out as far as they can; Cecil wills them to stretch away from the confines of his hand entirely. They stubbornly remain attached, but still manage to scrape across the edge of the bedside table. Cecil lets himself flail, digits scrambling across the small surface until they close around their target: the mostly-empty bottle of lube that is no longer kept in the drawer with their other supplies (his patience does not extend to rummaging through a drawer when the need arises).

“Just a moment, love,” he mutters with a distinct lack of focus, dropping the bottle onto the tangled sheets beneath him. The hand pressing the cell phone to his ear is stiff from the constant, confining action. His fingers ache as he finally peels the screen away from his face. They ache as he squints against the harsh light. They ache until he successfully switches the device to speaker phone, turning the volume up as high as it will go. They ache as he sets the phone face-down on his chest, nestled safely against his ribcage.

“ _Cecil_ ,” Carlos is begging now.

The high volume sets the speakers vibrating, ever-so-slightly, with the sound. The cell phone rumbles, ever-so-slightly, against Cecil’s chest. He closes his eyes and parts his lips. “Say something else.”

There’s a frustrated grunt. “Cecil, I want to hear _you_ talk…”

The vibrations of the phone match the vibrations of Carlos’s voice. Cecil grins at how easily he can trick himself into feeling his boyfriend’s voice like a physical presence.

“...I want you to stop _teasing_ -”

Cecil laughs, sharp and bright. “So impatient! What happened to ‘as much time to give as I want to take’?” His hands must have moved without his awareness, because slick fingers are wrapping around his cock now. Air is forced through his teeth in a tight hiss.

Carlos hears this, because his voice is lower when he responds. “That’s not what I meant when I said that. Now please, please… talk to me.”

The first sound to slip past Cecil’s lips is an incoherent whine. He loosens his grip on himself, trying to stall the heat that’s quickly building inside him. “Al- _ngh_ -alright, dear Carlos. But I-” he twists his wrist as his fingers brush across the head of his cock, “ _ah!_ I… I can’t remember what I was saying. Could you, maybe-”

“Happiness,” Carlos sputters, the sound losing breath support by the second syllable. “Cecil you were - _oh god Cecil_ \- talking about happiness.”

The increasingly broken sounds humming against Cecil’s chest are quickly taking him apart, moan by moan, whimper by whimper. He slows his hand again, determined to keep himself together long enough to help Carlos to completion with his voice. The tension pools in his gut like a promise, one that he knows can and will be fulfilled as soon as he chooses. He finds a calm, teasing pace before humming with sweet anticipation. “That’s right,” he cooes, “happiness. I was talking about how happy I will be when I see you again, Carlos. I’ve been forgetting that. I keep thinking about how much I wish I could see you now, all the happiness that I’m missing by not having you here in my arms - in my bed - wherever you’d want to be.”

Carlos’s moan is eloquent; it tells Cecil that he’s still listening, really listening to his words. At least, for now.

Cecil pumps his hand a bit faster, squeezes a bit tighter. It sends a flicker, a brief lick of fire up his spine. He shudders. “Carlos, you were so right to remind me. I’ve been forgetting to be happy. I felt as though I wasn’t supposed to be. I felt as though a part of me was missing, lost out in a desert somewhere. I felt as though I should mourn its loss. I was so wrong, Carlos. I thought you had a piece of me, and if it wasn’t with me, it was gone. But I understand now. You are a piece of me. You’ve become a part of my existence. And as long as you exist, that cannot be lost. You are not lost from me, because you still _are_. Our time and space do not currently meet, but that does not mean we no longer exist. We are two beings, together, and that has nothing to do with how much of the void separates our physical space. We are together, Carlos.”

His voice trails off into the empty bedroom. He comes back to himself, as though he had been gone while he was speaking. Sensation returns, and he realizes he is suddenly on the verge of coming, muscles already starting to tense. He pulls his hand away entirely, feeling the heat extinguish into a cold sheen of sweat. It’s not his time yet.

“I love you, Carlos,” he says gently, gentle enough to hear the frantic gasps pulsing out of the phone that’s still perched on the naked skin of his chest. “I am always happy with you. And I won’t forget again. I promise, I’ll-”

“ _Cecil_ -” The world is focused down to the sounds of Carlos’s ecstasy, the long string of cries and groans that smooth into whimpers and sighs, all speckled with half-spoken words of praise, scattered syllables of a name.

Some of these sounds are echoed across the void, echoed through Cecil’s throat, unable to keep himself from picturing the way Carlos’s face is thrown open when he comes for him. The way his body tenses, nails clawing into whatever bit of flesh is available to him. The way his perfect hair sticks to the sweat on his forehead and the back of his neck. He doesn’t have to see this before him to know how beautiful it is.

“Beautiful, beautiful Carlos…” he murmurs, his fingers lazily twining around his cock again.

“Ceec, please - now, I, _fuck_...” Carlos’s words are a string of mewls, still tainted with pleasure. “Please, querido, please come. I want to hear it - I want to hear you come. I _love_ hearing-”

The fire reignites instantly. Cecil needs no more encouragement. He immediately jerks his hips, fucking himself into his hand with all the tightness and pressure he chose to withhold before. “Mm-hmm, won’t take long.” The intensity of his thrusts punches the air out of his lungs. He still speaks, though it becomes a struggle. “Hearing you, it got me - got me - _so close_ , so good. Always does, always is. Love it, oh fuck oh gods, Carlos, love doing this with you…” he can only give a cry as he twists his wrist just right.

“You’re almost there, I can hear it,” Carlos breathes, low in his throat. “Now, Cecil, _come_.”

Cecil wails in a way that is not entirely human. His back arches off of the mattress until his cell phone slips off of his chest and into the junction of his neck and jaw. He’s coming, harder than he has since… since… he can’t remember. He briefly wonders if it’s possible to die like this, and if this is it for him, his last moment. He’s coming so hard he can’t imagine ever resurfacing, ever feeling anything else again. He tries to tell this to Carlos, but his throat is so tight that all he can manage is the obvious and unnecessary: _“C-coming!”_

His orgasm doesn’t stop so much as it fades. It fades gently into a cool stillness, and an immense exhaustion. He is gasping for breath, unsure his lungs even remember how to function. He reaches for his phone with too much effort, smearing the remains of his release across his stomach with his arm as he does so. He tries to laugh, but his body will not allow it.

He is undone.

“You alright, love?” Carlos’s words are full of satisfaction, not concern.

Cecil’s response is sleepy, and does not even resemble language.

“Happy Anniversary, Cecil.”

“It is, Carlos.”

Cecil’s limbs won’t let him clean himself up. His throat slowly works its way back to regular functionality, but his arm refuses the smallest attempts to reach for tissues. “Should…. to the clean,” he mumbles, hearing it as a perfectly coherent sentence in his groggy mind.

Carlos laughs, equally amused and admonishing. “You should to the _sleep_ ,” he corrects. “You have to get up for work in a few hours. You are a Radio Professional. You can’t tell your listeners you’re too sleepy to do a show because you were up til dawn doing very _un_ professional things with me.”

“They know it was our anniversary, they’ll understand,” Cecil says through a particularly strong yawn, spreading himself out across the far corners of the bed.

“You think the entire town just _knows_ it was our anniversary?”

Cecil makes a face.

It’s apparently loud enough for Carlos to hear. “Okay, fair point,” he concedes.

“You should get back to your Otherworld,” Cecil is starting to slur his words, “I’ve kep’ you from y’r Very Important Science for… long time.”

“I was busy with a Very Important Boyfriend, the science will understand.”

There’s a few moments of comfortable silence. Everything is lighter. Everything is heavier. Everything is-

“Ceec… _Cecil!”_

“Yesawake!” Cecil snaps out of sleep with an undignified snort.

Carlos is laughing. “I just wanted to say goodnight while I had the chance.”

“Do it, then,” he challenges, his sleep-addled brain convincing him that’s the right choice.

“Goodnight, Cecil. I’ll call you tomorrow… I think. I’ll have to check the calculations. I love you.”

“Check those calculations, too,” Cecil reminds him, feeling helpful.

“I don’t have to, querido.”

Cecil hums, fighting the heaviness in his eyelids. “If you say so. Love you, Carlos. Mm-night…”

The phone blacks out against Cecil’s sleeping face when Carlos ends the call.

The phone is right beneath his ear when it blares out a text alert less than two minutes later. The sound is so piercingly loud that Cecil is jolted awake by the fear of death, deafness, and a headache, in that order. He commands his heavy fingers to lift up the phone, glaring at it like the heartless traitor it is.

It’s a text. A picture message.

From Carlos.

The phone is no longer a traitor.

He opens the message. Carlos looks up at him in an awkwardly-framed selfie. He’s sandwiched into a tiny crevasse in a sandy alcove, somewhat lying down and somewhat sitting, obviously uncomfortable. His labcoat is filthy with dust. His dirty hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead. His fly is still unzipped. His face is that of a man who is completely, utterly… done.

There’s a caption:

‘Told you. Not dignified.’

For the first time ever, Cecil laughs himself to sleep.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for reading! Basically, I've been dealing with a lot of angst feelings regarding the Old Oak Doors situation, and then Rumbling came along and suddenly I'm filled with an overload of fluff feels. They needed to be dealt with before they reached dangerous levels. If you prefer something with a little more angst, I have a couple of Post-Old Oak Doors angst fics among my other works. There's also some more shameless Cecilos fluff, because everyone loves that, right?  
> I LOVE hearing from anyone who reads my fic. Please feel free to come hang out with me at my personal tumblr [blog](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/)!  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Night Vale, or its characters. I just do this because seriously... Cecilos.


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